Chapter 27
Three days. That was how long it had been since Oliver pressed a gun into her ribs and threatened to kill Lena.
Three days since Jonas had carried her out of that nightmare, his arms like iron, his voice the only steady thing in the chaos.
And somehow, impossibly, she felt almost… normal.
The compound, if that was even the right word for the hidden fortress carved into the mountainside, had begun to feel familiar.
The constant low hum of generators, the antiseptic tang that clung to the medical wing, the smell of coffee always brewing somewhere.
At first, it had been overwhelming, the sheer scale of it all, but she was adjusting.
She’d been given a small but comfortable apartment, the shelves already stacked with books someone had thought to leave for her. She suspected Jonas. He’d never admit it, but she knew.
Every morning, she spoke to Lena over secure comms, the line always crackling faintly but clear enough to hear her friend’s voice. Lena reassured her she was safe, her girlfriend was at her side, and every call left Clara lighter.
She hadn’t spoken to her parents. The thought of it made her stomach knot. Her mother would scold, her father would deflect, and all she’d hear was Oliver’s voice: We had a deal.
So, she didn’t call, but she knew they were safe. Jonas had assured her they were.
Instead, she spent her time with Jonas mostly, or with one of the team, who were, she was finding out, normal people with crazy, dangerous secret jobs.
Lunch in his tech room had become routine.
Sandwiches balanced precariously on crowded desks, mugs of tea.
Although he didn’t allow any food or liquid near his station.
In fact, he was almost religious about it.
A quirk some would call it, but she saw it for what it was, him needing control, calm, order.
Fingers still flying over the keys even as he answered her questions.
And he did answer them. Patiently, even when her curiosity slowed him down. He explained feeds and firewalls, satellite tracking, and facial recognition, pointing things out on his screens with a quiet intensity that made her lean closer just to catch every word.
She loved watching him like that. Focused. Brilliant. In his element.
He was a different man in those moments, not just the quiet, brooding figure she’d first met, but animated, sharp, almost boyish when he veered off to share some obscure fact. Yesterday, he’d explained the etymology of the word algorithm mid-code, his eyes lighting up when she laughed.
It was intoxicating.
And yet.
Her cheeks warmed at the thought she hadn’t been able to shake. He hadn’t kissed her again. Not once since the safehouse. Not since he’d made her fall apart with his hands and mouth, not since she’d whispered his name with tears still drying on her cheeks.
They spent hours together. Sometimes whole days. They ate, worked, even argued gently over trivial things like how much sugar belonged in tea. He looked at her like she mattered, like she wasn’t just some obligation he’d picked up.
But he didn’t touch her.
Not beyond the accidental brush of hands when passing her a mug, or the fleeting press of his shoulder against hers when they bent over the same screen.
Clara curled her legs beneath her on the sofa in her small apartment, staring at the steam rising from her tea. She should be grateful he was giving her space, not rushing her, not demanding anything. But a part of her, an inconvenient, treacherous part, wanted more.
Wanted him.
She set the mug down, pressing her palms to her knees, trying to steady herself. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe that was why. Or maybe he was holding himself back. She remembered the way his breath had caught after their kiss, the way he’d torn himself away once before.
There were shadows in him. She could feel them.
But when he smiled at her, even one of those rare, shy little smirks, she couldn’t help but believe the shadows didn’t matter. Not to her.
She drained the last of her tea, restless, the knot in her chest refusing to ease. Sitting here stewing wasn’t helping. She wanted to see him.
Pulling on a cardigan, she padded through the quiet corridors of the compound. She half-expected to find him buried in his tech cave, multiple screens glowing on his face, that intense focus swallowing him whole.
Instead, she almost collided with him as he came striding down the hall.
And he was smiling. Not the guarded, fleeting thing she’d grown used to, but a full, genuine smile that transformed his whole face, softening the sharp edges.
“Clara,” he said, almost breathless with energy. He caught her hand without hesitation, his warm fingers wrapping around hers as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “Come on.”
Her heart stuttered at the contact. “Where are we going?” she asked, breathless herself but smiling despite the rush of nerves.
He glanced back at her, eyes alight. “Got a call. My mum’s having a good day. She’s… asking for me.”
Clara blinked, caught off guard. “Oh.” She had no idea what that meant, but she followed him anyway.
Minutes later, they were in one of the unmarked SUVs, the leather seats cool against her palms as the countryside blurred past. He drove fast but smooth, one hand loose on the wheel, the other tapping rhythmically against his thigh.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye, his jaw set in concentration but his eyes unusually bright.
“Tell me about her,” she said softly.
He glanced at her, then back to the road, as though weighing whether he could. Finally, his mouth curved again, faint but fond. “She has Alzheimer’s, early onset.”
Grief clung to his words, and she felt her own heart heave in pain for him. “I’m sorry.” Useless words but all she could offer him.
“She’s the best,” he said simply, and his voice was thick with something that made her chest ache. “Loving. Kind. Strict, but she never stayed angry long. Always quick to hug. Supportive. Fierce.”
His fingers flexed against the wheel. “For a long time, it was just us. No dad in the picture. She worked two jobs, still somehow made time to read with me every night. When I was small, she used to sneak notes into my lunchbox, silly things, like facts about space, or riddles. ‘What has keys but can’t open doors?’ Stuff like that. ”
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “I’d try to solve them before lunchtime. Usually did. Sometimes I’d correct her facts if she got them wrong.”
Clara smiled, the image of a little boy Jonas, brilliant, stubborn, adored, taking shape so vividly she almost saw him in the seat beside her. “What did she say when you corrected her?”
“She laughed,” he said, his eyes softening. “Always laughed. She said it meant I was paying attention.”
Clara’s chest pulled tight. “And school?”
His expression flickered. “Hell,” he admitted. “At first I didn’t fit. Too quick to answer, too quiet otherwise. Kids didn’t like me. Teachers thought I was disruptive. Mum figured it out, though. Realised I wasn’t misbehaving, I was bored.”
He smiled, almost shy this time. “She fought the system. Got me into a gifted program. Suddenly I was surrounded by kids who could keep up or at least tried to. That’s when it got easier.
She always said it wasn’t about being the smartest in the room but about finding the room that didn’t dim your light. ”
Clara pressed a hand to her chest, her throat tight. “She sounds… incredible.”
“She is.” His voice cracked slightly. He swallowed, eyes fixed ahead. “Even now. Even when she doesn’t always know who I am. She’s still… her. Still kind, even when the memories are gone. But as long as I have them, she’s still here, even when the dementia steals the rest.”
The car was silent for a moment, only the low hum of the engine and the whoosh of tyres on tarmac.
Clara stared out the window, blinking hard.
Dementia was one of the cruellest thieves in the world, not just taking from those who had it but from those who loved them too.
Her grandfather had suffered the same fate, and it had been brutal to witness.
“What were you like as a kid?” she asked gently, needing to keep him talking, but wanting to lead him away from the darkness.
He chuckled under his breath. “Obsessed with puzzles. Anything I could take apart and put back together. Mum used to hide the toaster because I dismantled it three times in one week. I liked to recite facts at random, still do, I guess. Did you know an octopus has three hearts?”
Clara laughed, the sound surprising her with its ease. “I do now.”
He shot her a glance, the corner of his mouth tugging. “She said I was exhausting, but never in a bad way. Just… a boy who needed to know how everything worked.”
Clara studied him as he spoke, the way his profile softened, the way his hand flexed on the wheel when he mentioned his mum. He wasn’t just recounting facts; he was reliving it, piece by piece, and it was beautiful.
She realised she was holding her breath, not wanting to break the moment.
The care home was tucked behind an avenue of chestnut trees, its stone facade softened by climbing roses and neat flowerbeds.
Clara noticed the curtains in the windows, lace, dainty, and the faint sound of birdsong rising over the hum of traffic.
It felt peaceful, far away from the chaos of the bigger cities, from Oliver’s threats, from danger.
Jonas parked without a word, gripping the wheel tighter than necessary.
Clara saw the pulse at his temple ticking fast. “You’re nervous,” she said gently.
He glanced at her, caught out. “Always am. Some days she knows me. Some days…” His throat bobbed. “Some days she doesn’t.”
Clara’s chest ached. “Then let’s make today count.”
For the first time, he let out a breath that was almost a laugh and nodded.